


As The Road Curves Down

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: One sticky night, Sam and Dean find themselves sleepless and frustrated. Weecest - Sam is sixteen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One sticky night, Sam and Dean find themselves sleepless and frustrated. Weecest - Sam is sixteen.

 

 

The first time it happens, it's furtive and hushed. Quick and desperate. Hazy like a dream. Boys being boys. Nearly disposable. Almost.

Sam Winchester is sixteen years old and his big brother, Dean, is twenty. They are way too old and much too big to be sharing the queen sized bed in the muggy motel room, but needs must and as John Winchester grumbles and turns on his own beaten up mattress just a few feet away, Sam stretches his coltish limbs and tries in vain to find a cool spot on the sheets.

The gloom is swampy with three kinds of sweat. Each time Sam inhales, the air tastes old and used. Dean's face is too close to his own, his sleep-sour breath hot against Sam's cheek. Sam sighs, filling his lungs from the bottom up, but he still feels suffocated, his skin itchy and tacky. He shunts the covers down past his hips and flaps the hem of his t-shirt, failing to find relief in the stale, warm air that wafts over his taut stomach.

“Quit it, Sam!”

Dean's voice is hissed right into his ear.

“How in the Hell am I supposed to get any sleep with you fidgeting like that? Settle down.”

John stirs a little across the way, but doesn't wake.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers miserably. “Just so hot. Can't sleep.”

Sam feels Dean's hand reach up lazily and stroke across his clammy brow, pushing the damp bangs out of his face.

“Jeez, Sammy. You're like a human furnace. Why don't you take your shirt off for a start?”

Sam hesitates for a second before wriggling out of the thin cotton tee and dumping it on the carpet.

“Better?” Dean asks.

“A little,” Sam admits quietly.

Dean sits up and hauls his own shapeless t-shirt off, before laying back and raising his hips to push down his sweats.

“What're you doing?” Sam asks in a barely there voice.

“Trying to get cool!” Dean whispers back.. “You got me all hot and bothered as well now.”

Sam waits for Dean to get comfortable again, flinching when his brother's naked skin brushes his own. Sharing a bed is nothing unusual for the Winchester boys, but recently Sam's overactive hormones and lack of privacy mean he's wound pretty tight, and the slightest contact is often enough to make his body react with mortifying eagerness. He silently curses as the wiry hairs on Dean's upper thigh slide and catch in a velcro-rough drag against his own, and his blood starts to flow south.

“Scoot up, Sasquatch. You're hogging all the space.”

“Am not!” Sam rasps a little too loud as John mutters something in his sleep. Both boys wait for his breathing to slow again, a faint rattle in his throat, and Dean whispers,

“Well, sleep on your side. It takes up less room.”

Dean turns his back to his little brother and waits for Sam to do the same. Sam rolls onto his side, but instead of facing away, he instictively turns into Dean's back. Dean feels the tickle of Sam's breath on his nape and chuckles quietly,

“It's too hot for spooning, Samantha – get on your own side!”

Dean pushes his ass out to force his brother backwards, but he stops sharp when he feels Sam's very large, very hard dick against his cleft.

“Shit, Sam! Careful with that thing!”

Dean is a little shocked, but he feels Sam's frustration. Heat has always made him horny and he knows it's not much fun trying to sleep when you have that persistent kind of problem heavy between your thighs. He also doesn't want to wake up bathed in Sam's considerable release if his brother's sleeping brain decides to finish what his conscious one has started.

“Dude! Why don't you go to the bathroom and take care of business? I don't want any accidents in the night!”

Sam flushes even deeper than before, blooming with shame, and he swallows thickly before murmuring,

“Just shut up Dean! I'm fine. I don't wanna wake Dad. Go to sleep.”

“Well turn away then. I don't want you dry humping me in the throes of a dirty dream!”

“Fine!” Sam huffs and turns his back on his brother as quietly as the creaking springs will allow.

He stays as still as possible until his hand is numb from the unmoving weight on his arm, and he hears Dean breathing, slow and deep and even. But still his painfully hard cock refuses to ease up. He can count out his heart rate in the throb of his erection, as it pleads for attention. After what could be half an hour, he can't take it any more. Slowly, carefully, he squirms onto his back. An idea sparks and flares in his lust-doused mind and he takes the hand, now tingly with pins and needles, and licks his palm before slipping it down his shorts.

He bites his lower lip as he encircles his cock, and very gently pumps up and down, trying not to jog his sleeping brother. The bloodflow to his arm is not quite restored, so it feels weird, like his hand doesn't belong to him. He can't feel his own swollen flesh against the pads of his buzzing fingers, and that adds to the thrill.

Sam's hips start to move of their own volition, bucking up into his fist. The sensation in his arm is more or less back but it doesn't matter now because he feels so damn good, his whole body straining, geared toward coming. He has to take it down a notch each time the mattress protests with a metallic groan, and breaking his stride pulls him back from the edge of climax. He swallows down a moan of frustration as his orgasm is halted once more by the restriction of his movements, and he brings his hand to his face to slick it up again with his tongue.

But before he can take ahold of himself, he feels a hot fist close around the engorged head of his dick and squeeze. He does moan then and nearly bites his own tongue clean off as Dean's hand starts to stroke him slowly.

“Shhh...it's OK, Sammy.”

Dean's voice is a low rumble against his ear. He feels it as much as hears it.

“Gonna take care of you. Gonna give you what you need.”

Sam's eyes flutter shut as Dean's tongue snakes out and licks at his earlobe.

“God, Dean. What're you doing?” he whispers shakily, although he knows it's a stupid question.

“Gonna bring you off, Sammy. Gonna make you come.”

Sam presses his lips together to stop himself whimpering at the intent in his brother's voice. This is so wrong and dirty, but Sam is so turned on he's actually shaking with need.

“Feel that Sam?” Dean punctuates his question by rolling his hips into Sam's side so his little brother can feel how aroused he is. “You did that. You made me hard with your wiggling and moaning, the wet sounds of your hand on that huge dick of yours. Making me crazy. Hot for my own brother while Dad's sleeping a few feet away.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Sam breathes in a ruined voice.

“All sweaty, and musky, the heat pouring off you. You smell so good, Sam. Teasing me. Jacking off right next to me like that.”

“Dean,” Sam wails as low as he can.

“C'mere!” Dean orders, wrenching his brother onto his side to face him. He lets go of Sam's aching cock and slides his sticky hand down the back of Sam's shorts, pushing them down, out of the way and pulling Sam tight against himself. At some point he's shucked his own underwear and the feel of their twitching dicks aligned nearly pushes Sam over the edge. Then Dean starts to thrust, dragging his slippery length against his little brother's and Sam's eyes fill with tears because it's the best thing he's ever felt and it's going to be over too soon.

“Gimme your mouth,” Dean begs in his ear, and Sam does. Dean's lips are plush and soft, nudging against his own, his tongue slow and thorough, and it's all Sam can do not to weep with gratitude. Dean pulls back a little and whispers against Sam's open mouth,

“Mmm. Aww fuck yeah! Just like that. You taste so good. Gonna come, Sammy. You're gonna make me come so hard.”

Dean takes Sam's hand and guides it to his chest. Sam's nails graze his nipple and he grinds harder when his little brother takes the hint and pinches. Sam's not sure who gets off first, but he has to bury his face in Dean's shoulder and bite down on the tender meat there to stop from screaming as thick heat pulses and spurts between them, making liquid sounds and filling the atmopshere with ammonia tang. They kiss sloppily as they come down, Sam vaguely aware and more than a little relieved that John is still snoring lighty. He feels floaty, euphoric, and smiles against Dean's lips, trying not to giggle.

Sam drifts off, and for once his dreams are not full of monsters. He sleeps with his brother's fingers snarled in his hair, and their combined seed crusting the downy hairs of his belly, and he dreams of light freckles, dirty blonde hair, lips too pink and sinful for a boy and limpid eyes of forest green which belie the way their owner has seen too much. How he is too old for his years.

Dean is up and showered before John and Sam wake, and Sam finds himself bundled into the bathroom to clean up by his brother who then hurridly makes the bed before heading out in search of coffee. When he returns, John makes some comment about it being too close to sleep properly and Sam shoots his brother a panicked glance which Dean refuses to meet. His jaw is set, determined, and Sam recognises the regret there.

They don't speak about it. Every time Sam summons the courage to broach the subject, Dean throws him a murderous glare which stops him in his tracks. Dean starts insisting they are too old for sharing cots, and though John will never pay for separate rooms, he does concede a little, and they take turns sleeping on couches or the floor. Sam can't tell if he suspects anything is amiss between his sons.

When they spar, Dean is careful not to let his touches linger, and Sam finds himself making stupid mistakes when they hunt because he craves his brother's skillful touch as his deft fingers search him over for injury.

Almost two years after that first time, Sam and Dean stand facing one another at a bus stop. Sam has his holdall stuffed full and the strap is digging into an old scar on his shoulder. Dean drove him here as John refused to, stubborn bastard that he is. They are all worn thin by anger and love and all the things they cannot voice.

Sam says,

“Try to understand. This is my shot at having a life. A real life with real friends. To put down roots. I'm so tired of being on the road. Of being exhausted, scared, in pain. I'm sick of being a freak.”

Sam means,

'I need to get away because I can't stand the recrimination in your eyes.'

Sam means,

'I need to get away from you because I love you in all the wrong ways and it's killing me.'

Dean says,

“I get it. Be happy, Sammy. Keep in touch.”

Dean means,

'I'm sorry.'

Dean means,

'Don't go.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean face many losses but realise when it comes to each other they are not prepared to play by the usual rules.  
> This is kind of a whistle-stop through seasons 1-3, culminating at the start of 4, so LOTS of spoilers. It's pretty angsty but then nice and dirty because I like messin' with y'all ;)

 

 

Sam's been away at Stanford for almost four years when Dean breaks into his apartment that Halloween night, and they end up in a messy tangle of limbs on the floor. Dean doesn't hurt him but Sam feels winded anyway, overwhelmed by the spicy, warm leather scent and the perfect weight of his brother pinning him to to the hardwood. He's missed the contact so badly he can hardly breathe.

“Easy tiger!” Dean smirks, and Sam knows all the walls he's spent the last few years carefully building are no match for the wrecking ball of his brother's smile.

Sam knows it for a lie when he tells Dean he wants to go back to school. He feels the keen inevitability when Jessica burns and his brother's hands pull him from an inferno for the second time in his short life. He feels a sickening guilt lodged in his gullet, the knowledge that Hell is after him and he led it straight to Jessica. Sweet, carefree Jess who was so ready to accept his watered down version of a past. Jess who was so easy to love because she was nothing like Dean.

He knows it's an insult to her, how quickly they fall back into their rhythm. He has nightmares but it's almost worse when he doesn't. It's the times he wakes up in the passenger seat of the Impala or in some dingy motel and realises his brother is by his side. Dean is here and he's so damn grateful. It's his first thought, before he remembers Jess is dead and Dad is missing, and he feels like the worst kind of person.

At first it eats him up. He's too quick to throw himself into revenge. He tells Dean it's all he can think about. But as they chalk up the miles, the hours, the days, the months – side by side – Sam begins to realise that this is his life now, and if he catches it in the right light, it can be his happiness. The thought makes his stomach lurch.

The terror he feels when Dean's heart is damaged, the utter panic, is enough to drive him half out of his mind. It almost makes a mockery of the grief he feels for a woman he was about to commit to for the rest of his life. He wishes he could feel something more than a glancing pity for the boy who died in his brother's place but he can't. He'd throw him to the reaper himself in a hearbeat to keep Dean safe.

He finally realises how screwed he is when, having spent so long tracking him down, he considers shooting their father to save Dean from the demon yanking John around like a puppet. It's only his brother's strangled voice, begging through a veil of agony which brings him to his senses.

He weeps like a baby when their dad sacrifices himself to an eternity of torment - hands over his soul for his eldest son, but it doesn't stop the treacherous fingers of relief walking up his spine.

Alone in the world once again, the brothers are symbiotic. They get everything they need from each other. Everything except the one thing Sam aches for. He'd find it funny the way Dean throws himself at every waitress and barmaid they meet if it didn't make his throat constrict and his food taste like ashes in his mouth. He allows himself a small smile every time a motel proprietor or interviewee makes a dubious assumption about them and Dean's brow crinkles in puzzled annoyance. There's one lie, one scam he can't quite pull off.

It's written in the way his eyes hold Sam's for slightly too long and in the way his voice gets snagged and tight when Sam mentions there may come a time when he needs to go his own way – once they've avenged their parents and Jess. It's a challenge. A plea.

Sam says,

“You need to let me lead my own life.”

Sam means,

'If you don't want me, let me go.'

Sam thinks it's twisted poetry that for all his brother's efforts to push him towards the fairer sex, all his brief attachments end in disappointment. Or horror.

It feels like a benediction when the last thing he thinks he'll ever feel, after the knife plunges into his back, blunting on bone, is Dean holding his face, the last thing he'll ever hear is Dean crying his name as the world goes dark.

“Sam! Sammy! I'm gonna take of you. I've got you, I've got you.”

But then he's back and he realises with a sinking, leaden feeling deep in his gut that Dean is now the one on borrowed time, although he denies it at first. Sam's dreams are consumed with the howls and snarls of invisible dogs. And Sam finally gets the confirmation he's yearned for since that soupy night when he was sixteen – Dean can't and won't live without him. He'd give anything to have found out another way.

The long months they spend in Broward County cement Sam's resolve. He will not let Dean do this. Whatever it takes. He knows he won't survive seeing his brother dragged away by those sulfur-reeking sons of bitches. Whatever it takes. He stands facing the Trickster with his heart slamming against his ribs when he realises this has all been some elaborate pay-back turned perverse lesson. He'd kill the sick little fuck properly this time if he didn't think his legs were about to give out. If he didn't believe he could give him what he needs. He knows he's crying, but he's too relieved to be proud.

“Just bring him back,” he sobs. “Please, please bring him back.”

And the Trickster does. The look of disgusted pity on the monster's face will stay with Sam Winchester forever.

But it's a short-lived reprieve. The hounds come, and despite the sleepless weeks of research and desperate summoning he does, trying to find a loophole, a deal, even mercy, they take his brother, his only love, to the depths of Hell. Sam's swears he can hear him calling from down there.

Sam becomes an empty vessel. A shadow. There's nothing left in the world which holds any joy for him. He stops returning Bobby's calls. He doesn't eat, barely rests. He stands at crossroads, buries spells and screams out to any entity that will listen. He drinks. He takes stupid risks. When she comes to him, offering a modicum of power against the forces of Hell, he is devastated enough to listen. It's the first dark nugget of hope he's had since he watched the life leach out of those green eyes. Sam figures he'll fight hellfire with hellfire.

Ruby is with him in the seedy motel room when Bobby knocks at the door with the thing that looks like his brother in tow. Sam fights down bile as he hears the familiar, easy drawl,

“Hi, Sammy.”

He stands dumbfounded. It's so damn convincing.

“I know. I know. I look fantastic!” Dean's face is wry.

It's so close, but it can't be, so Sam lunges only to find himself being held back by Bobby who swears blind it's Dean. He lets himself believe because he wants it so badly, and the minute they embrace he knows it's really him. Dean is back.

It takes every ounce of willpower Sam has to break that hug. He sees fear scud across his brother's features when Ruby snidely asks them if they 'are together'. Just like a demon to prod a raw wound for the fun of it. Sam asks her to leave, praying Dean is too preoccupied to notice she's not just some random pick-up. Bobby watches them closely for a few minutes before tactfully setting out to speak to some psychic friend he thinks may help them solve the mystery of Dean's resurrection.

“I swear I didn't do this, Dean. I tried. I never stopped trying, but no one would deal.”

“OK, Sammy. I believe you.”

They are sat facing each other on the double bed, passing a bottle of liquor back and forth.

“It's not. It's not OK, Dean. I failed. No one would deal. I don't know what pulled you out, but it wasn't me. I couldn't do...anything. I let you down. I fucking failed you, man.”

Dean leans over and cups Sam's face as he breaks down, sobs wracking his large frame.

“Look at me, Sam,” he commands, tilting brother's chin to force him to meet his eyes. “Look at me!”

Sam looks up, his slanted eyes brimming with tears.

“You didn't fail me. There was nothing you could've done. Nothing. You hear me?”

Sam nods but Dean knows he's just doing it to appease him.

“Now, I don't know how I'm back or why, but I am. I'm back, Sam. So what say you and I drink this and just enjoy the moment, huh?”

Dean thumbs a tear from his brother's cheek and Sam sighs into the touch.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers.

Deans eyes well and he puts the bottle down on the bedside table and shuffles closer to his brother. Sam lets his hands come up and traces Dean's jaw with one slender finger. He needs to keep touching to know this isn't just another dream.

“Don't wanna wake up, Dean.”

“Not sleeping, Sammy. I'm here.”

Sam draws his finger lightly across Dean's lower lip, savouring the silky feel of the mouth that's brought him to shameful release in countless nocturnal fantasies. Dean's watching him with a strange expression which gradually becomes a small, resigned smile.

“OK, Sammy,” he breathes finally. “OK, c'mere.”

Sam leans forward and his eyes fall shut as his lips brush Dean's. It's chaste at first and they both draw back and stare into each other's eyes, Sam seeking permission, his brother faltering. Then Dean licks his dry lips and Sam is there again, chasing Dean's tongue with his own.

Although it's been years since he experienced this, Sam remembers the taste of Dean's mouth like it was yesterday, salty-sweet and now fiery with the drink. He hears Dean moan when he sucks on the soft cushion of his lower lip. It sounds pained and he licks into his brother's mouth, determined to drive any doubts he may have away with his skillful tongue.

“Need you, Dean,” He mumurs against Dean's plump lips. “Need this so bad.”

“Yeah, Sammy. I know. I know you do. C'mere, baby.”

Sam pushes Dean back against the pillows and covers his body with his own. Dean catches sight of something glinting in the lamplight and reaches inside Sam's t-shirt.

“You're wearing it!” he says, a boyish grin illuminating his face.

Sam clasps the amulet and pulls it up over his head. He sits back on his calves and lifts Dean's head gently so he can slip it around his neck.

“There,” he says, pressing the warm metal against his brother's chest. “Back where it belongs.”

They kiss again, and this time it's urgent and feral. They grind against one another, vying for control. Sam strips off their shirts and bites and sucks marks into his brother's newly flawless skin.

“No scars,” he mumbles absently. “Fucking perfect, Dean.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Pure as the driven snow.” Dean smiles again but this time it doesn't reach his eyes.

“Touch, me,” Sam whimpers, and Dean's hands slide around his back, softer than they should be, kneading the lean muscles and moving lower, under the waistband of his jeans, smoothing over the curve of his ass.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” Sam groans, pressing his straining zipper down into Dean's rapidly hardening dick.

“Sam,” Dean says, and there's hesitancy there.

Guilt? Shame? Sam isn't certain, but he's not sure he can stop now, even if Dean asks him to.

“Please, Dean. Please don't ask me to stop. Please.”

“Shhh, it's OK, Sammy. I got you, baby boy. I'm here. Don't wanna stop. You taste so good. Just like I remember.”

Sam dips his head again and licks a trail down the side of his brother's neck, across the freckled skin of his chest, tracing trembling little circles around his nipple before sucking the tender bud between his teeth. Dean hisses and his hips snap up.

“Oh shit, Sammy. Yeah, just like that. Harder, baby. You can bite.”

Sam smiles and lets his strong, white teeth clamp down a little more.

“Fuck,” Dean moans, and lets his head thud back into the headboard.

Sam takes the opportunity to open his brother's fly and gasps as his fully hard cock pokes through the slit of his underwear. He wriggles the jeans down over his hips and scoots down the bed to lick a stripe along the underside of Dean's leaking dick. He wants him compliant and weak with desire before he has a chance to think about what they're doing.

Sam's never done this before, but he's imagined it every damn day since Dean jerked him off. He swirls his tongue around the head, tasting slick saltiness, and he wets his lips before pushing them down over it, taking in as much of his brother's rigid length as he can without gagging.

Dean makes a sound low in his throat which nearly has Sam coming in his jeans, and he hollows his cheeks and sucks, just this side of rough. He feels Dean's fingers tangle in his hair, pulling and pushing as he struggles to keep his hips from pistoning up.

“Oh Jesus, Sam. So good, baby. Take it all down. Use your teeth.”

Sam lightly scrapes his incisors up and down the shaft which has Dean cursing, and earns him a pulse of precome on his tongue. He pulls off long enough to watch the way Dean's worrying at his lips with his teeth, a swathe of colour across his cheeks highlighting the smattering of freckles there. He's so beautiful that Sam's heart actually stutters for a few beats.

He returns his attention to Dean's cock, dark blood suffusing the head, clear fluid oozing from the slit. He blows lightly and it jumps, brushing Sam's chin.

“Sammy, quit teasing and suck me already!” Dean whines, and Sam laughs, swallows him all the way down, feeling the spongy crown at the back of his throat, the hard weight on his tongue as he bobs his head. Dean moans loudly and Sam knows he is close, so he stops, kneeling, straddling his brother and unfastening his own jeans.

Dean groans in frustration and watches with lust-blown eyes, his focus glassy, as Sam draws his aching cock out of his fly. He licks his hand and runs it up and down the long, thick shaft, putting on a show for his brother.

Dean whistles.

“Holy shit, Sam! You got a license for that thing?”

He's trying to sound off-hand but Sam catches the hitch in his breath, the hint of nervousness and even awe. Sam's mouth quirks into a smile and he inches forward until his knees are either side of his brother's shoulders. He can see Dean's too far gone to refuse Sam anything at this point, so he tilts his hips forward and paints that pout slick with his fluid.

Dean holds his eyes all the while, his pink tongue darting out to taste his little brother for the first time.

“Gonna fuck my mouth, Sammy?” he whispers, his breath ghosting over Sam's over-senstive dick. “Gonna take what you need?”

Sam nods once, his brow crumpled with intensity, and pushes forward. Dean opens for him and it's so perfect, so natural, that Sam has to wonder if he's done this before. He knows in his heart there's nothing Dean wouldn't have done to keep him in food and warm clothes when they were younger and he's so messed up at this moment he can't decide if that idea hurts him or fuels the filthy-sweet heat flaring in his abdomen.

He braces himself on the headboard and starts to make shallow thrusts while Dean watches him with glazed eyes, his lids heavy, and moans as he works Sam off. Sam can't bear to watch as his dick pounds into his brother hot mouth, the runner of his zip rasping against blonde stubble, but he can't bear to look away either. Dean's eyes water as his hips pick up the pace, taking everything Sam gives him regardless. Sam feels like he's dissolving and, to his dismay, he finds he's crying and babbling. He knows he's choking Dean but he can't stop and all too soon he's panting, dizzy, his voice broken as he chants,

“Dean, Dean, Dean. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come.”

Dean pulls back just in time, his mouth open, tongue spread flat and wide, and they lock eyes as Sam hollers and shoots four creamy bursts onto it. The corner of Dean's mouth tugs into a smirk, and he waits for Sam to find his gaze again before drawing his tongue in and swallowing with a loud gulp.

“Christ,” Sam whispers.

Then Dean is rolling him over, pinning him, kicking off their pants, pushing his hard, wet cock between Sam's thighs and rolling his hips. His flat stomach drags stickily on Sam's softening dick and he leans down to kiss him, their teeth clashing as he rubs himself off. Sam tenses his legs, giving Dean something firmer and tighter to rut up into. He's sucking on Dean's tongue when he feels him still and then Dean lets go with a sound ripped from the pit of his stomach as warm sludginess pools and spills down, coating Sam's balls and running into the crack of his ass.

Dean slumps forward and the air in the still room is thick with their laboured breathing and the smell of their sex. Sam brings a hand up to weave his fingers through the messy tufts of his brother's hair and Dean catches his fingers, bringing them to his swollen lips for a soft kiss.

Sam feels sleep washing over him, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn't dread waking up.

 

 

 


	3. As The Road Curves Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know the darkest hour is just before the dawn...

 

 

The third time feels like the fate of the world depends on it. And maybe it does.

Sam wakes with Dean's arm thrown posessively around his waist and flakes of his fluid dried onto his lower belly and hip. Just the gentle push-pull of Dean's sleeping breath on the side of his throat is enough to get him hard again.

He runs his fingers lightly through his brother's bed mussed hair. He traces his profile with a barely-there touch and lets the tip of one finger test the silky tickle of those long, burnished eyelashes. Dean's face twitches and Sam smiles, continuing his secret exploration of his brother's slumbering body.

He slides his hand down his neck, feels his pulse vital and strong under his fingers. Dean is back. He's alive. And he loves Sam. There was never any doubt about the profundity of that love, but now Sam has it in the shape he's been yearning for. In this quiet and callow part of the morning, Sam has everything he's ever wanted, warm and solid in his arms, and nothing has ever mattered more than this moment.

His fingers brush lightly over the hollow at the base of Dean's throat, and across his shoulder and that's when he feels it. The raised and pitted keloidal scar covering the whole of Dean's left deltoid. Sam shifts him gently and levers up on his elbow to get a better look at his brother. And there it is. It looks like a burn but it's in the perfect outline of one large hand. It definitely wasn't there earlier.

“Dean!” Sam whispers harshly. “Dean! Wake up!”

Dean moans like he's in physical pain as he comes to.

“Sam?”

“Dean, shit! You have to see this.”

Dean opens one impossibly green eye and scrunches up his nose as he looks up at Sam. Then something in his expression hardens and he snatches his arm back from its intimate resting place on his brother's hip.

Sam recognises that look. He remembers it from when he was sixteen. His heart clenches, but he figures he'll distract Dean with the mystery of the newly appeared branding, and they'll deal with the fallout of their sex later.

“Dean, look at your shoulder, man. It looks like something burned you.”

“What?”

Dean is still too drowsy to follow this conversation, so Sam takes his right hand in his own and carefully lays it over the handprint.

“There! Does it hurt?”

“No,” says Dean, puzzled. “No, not really.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Sam says.

 

They shower separately and dress in silence. Sam's attempt to fold his brother into a lingering kiss is gently rebuffed.

“Sam, I...”

“Dean, please!” There is no tempering the desperation in his voice.

“No, Sam.”

“Dean, come on. Don't do this. Not again. Why can't you just go with it?”

Dean looks at the floor and runs his tongue nervously over his dry lips.

“I'm weak, Sammy. You're my brother. My _little_ brother. And it's my fault you want this, but we can't. Shouldn't ever have happened the first time. You were just a kid for Christ's sake. And I took advantage and I made you want this. And I'm sorry.”

“Bullshit! You know how I feel. How I've _always_ felt about you.You're telling me you don't want me? So what the fuck was last night, Dean?”

“Sam, please. Don't.”

“No! Tell me you don't want this, Dean.”

Sam entwines his longs fingers in the thin, cottom hem of his brother's tee and drops his forehead to his shoulder. He smells of soap and the skin of neck is warm and soft against Sam's lips. He slips his tongue out to taste.

“I'm telling you we can't be like that. The way we were brought up. I know things got bent out of shape along the way but...”

“Tell me you don't want me.”

Dean shudders out a sigh.

“Sam, you know you're the most important -”

“Tell me you don't want me.”

Dean unhooks Sam's hands from his waist and walks out to the car.

 

Sam wishes they had given more credence to angelic lore when poor Pamela Barnes has her eyes burnt out. He sits at her kitchen table as she lays a hand on the hand-shaped mark on his brother. Sam has one hand in Bobby's calloused palm, the other clasping Dean's so hard his knuckles are white. He can't help giving little pulsing squeezes. Dean's firm grip is reassuring but that forbidding look is back. Sam's wishing he could use his powers to read his brother's mind when she starts to scream. Then everything is TV static and a piercing sort of pain. And Pamela's charred and empty eye sockets are testament to the existence of angels.

Dean's been claimed by Heaven. Sam's not sure how to feel about that. Of course, he has been chosen too, only his marks are less visible to the naked eye. Dean struggles with his goodness, his obligation. He squirms and tenses under the weight of it daily. He doubts his worthiness.

Sam struggles too. He knows he is polluted. Tainted by the wrong side. Perhaps that's why he's tormented by deparaved thoughts of his own brother every waking minute, while Dean seems to be stoically beating them a path of avoidance again.

Sam likes Castiel well enough, but he'd be lying if he denied the cold rush of possessive anger that full-body slams him every time he sees that handprint seared into Dean's flesh. The way the angel uses those ink blue eyes to look at his brother with the beginnings of a very human affection.

They are standing on the edge of a precipice. They both know it. Unseen hands are moulding them, trying to fit them into roles they never chose. Sam feels the distance between them grow with each passing day.

When Dean catches him in the middle of an exorcism with Ruby, he knows he's fucked up good this time. Dean packs his bags.

“What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing Sam? Huh? How long have you and that demon whore been carrying on behind my back?”

Sam smiles incredulously but he's pathetically grateful for the jealousy colouring Dean's words.

“Carrying on? She's helping me to save people, Dean.”

“No! The only one that bitch is helping is herself. Nothing good can come of associating with demons, Sam. You _know_ that. I mean she's already got you sneaking around and lying to me!”

“Look, Dean I should have told you but - “

Dean's fist connects with his jaw with a meaty thwack. Sam tastes blood and wipes his lip with the back of his hand. There's a fury in his brother's eyes which makes his stomach lurch.

“Satisfied?” Sam asks after a few agonsising moments of silence.

Dean punches him again.

“You stupid sonofabitch!” Dean spits out. “Don't you realise you're becoming just like the things we hunt? Can't you _see_ that, Sam? I'm trying to protect you but you're making it so damn hard for me.”

“You were gone, Dean! I was here. You left me on my own and I had to carry on the best way I could. Without you.”

Dean blinks back the answering tears he feels starting as Sam's eyes fill.

“Don't you lay this on me, Sam. Don't you do that.”

Sam looks down, whispers,

“I'm sorry.”

“It has to stop, Sam. I don't know how long I can keep you safe.”

The rot sets in. Sam knows he's a marked man. Hell's calling him. All roads lead him back here. God Himself wants him to stop, but he can't. He can feel the tainted blood inside him, making him strong, making him want more. The way Dean looks at him is unbearable sometimes, like he's stained and filthy with it.

Angels and demons pull them this way and that until Sam isn't sure where good ends and evil begins. They are in the midst of the ultimate game. The stakes are way too high and each player has their own agenda. Sam knows he has one. Revenge. He wants Lilith dead. He wants his brother. And he wants blood.

Things are darker than ever before. They lose friends. Sam is glad Pamela Barnes can't look him in the eye as the cautionary words and the life bleed out of her. But he still has Dean. They are hurting and suspicious, a little bit broken most of the time, but they are still together. Sam will have to take that for now.

Dean is easy pickings for the siren in Iowa. Sam knows his lies, his going to Ruby opened a wound Dean just can't let alone long enough to scab over. But he's still a little surprised when Dean's secret garden turns out to be a Sam substitute. The monster's posion opens the floodgates and although they try to deny it after the event, the truths unearthed that day widen the gulf between them a little more. They have drawn a line in the sand, but Sam's deluded and desperate enough to believe they are still standing on the same side of it.

And then Sam falls. He didn't think anything could hurt as much as watching Dean being torn apart by the hounds, but being locked down in Bobby's panic room comes a close second. Dean's eyes burn clean through him from the slot in the door, and Sam swears he can see the exact moment his heart breaks.

He sweats and shakes and pukes, has visions which make him scream and weep like a scared little boy. He knows rationally, somewhere buried deep, that it is the blood and his own guilt making him see these things, but that doesn't make it any easier when Dean calls him a monster. He knows it's true. It sends him back to Ruby. His contingency plan. His last hope. Dean may hate him right now, but he can still destroy Lilith. He can still find redemption. A way back to his brother.

There aren't words for what he feels when the sky starts falling. The burden of knowing he broke the final seal is so crushing, Sam has to wonder if he's already dead. Maybe he drank himself to death in the motel room one one of those long lonely nights when missing Dean got so bad he thought his heart would stop from it, and this is his own private slice of Hell.

He leaves. Dean lets him go. He wants to die but he knows that's not an option. Not for him. He goes through the motions of a life, but there's nothing left worth living for in Sam's opinion.

Until one day he gets a phone call.

His heart literally skips a beat when he sees Dean leaning against the Impala, waiting for him, his expression unsure – almost timid. When he says, 'Sam', his voice soft, when he hands him back Ruby's knife, tells him if he wants in, Dean will take him back, tells him 'sorry', tells him 'I was wrong', Sam feels like his chest is too small to contain the swell of relief and pride and love building there.

Dean says,

“We'll make our own future.”

Dean means,

“I'm done fighting this. I need you any which way.”

Sam says,

“Thank you. Really. I won't let you down.”

Sam means,

“Whatever it takes.”

 

It's not at all how it's supposed to go down when they both get blasted in the chest by vengeful hunters. They've had their eye on the bigger picture for so long, they don't see the human element of danger coming.

Sam watches Dean like a hawk as they are whipped through their version of Heaven. The betrayal his brother can't swallow down when they visit the places where Sam found some semblance of hope without him. Sam thinks, 'you stubborn sonofabitch – it would have taken one word and I would never have gone.' But he pushes that all away when he sees the light in his brother's eyes as he remembers the snippets of a childhood they stole and patched together. Milk and cookies. The odd cheap toy from a service station. Pilfered fireworks on the fourth of July.

It's so damn good to see Ash and Pam – to know they're OK. Sam wishes they didn't have to break the news of Jo and Ellen's death, but seeing his old friends gives him hope that they have all found some kind of peace.

Sams's not completely surprised when it's Ash who presents them with the epiphany: Sam and Dean are sharing Paradise. Sam and Dean are a _special case_. The boys look at Ash and he gets this odd expression of clarity, an atypically sensitive tone to his voice.

“Soulmates.”

Dean flinches but Sam has never heard anything so beautiful. He's sorry when Joshua returns them to their own crumbling world.

 

 


	4. As The Road Curves Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third time.  
> So, this morphed into something much heavier than I intended when I set out. I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

 

 

The Winchester Brothers sit facing each other on a queen sized bed in a no-tell motel somewhere in Ohio. Sam takes a swig of the cheap whiskey and passes the bottle to Dean.After taking a long pull, Dean wipes his hand over his mouth and smiles.

“Deja-vu?”

Sam's cheeks heat at that.

“A little. You?”

Dean smirks – probably to hide his nerves, Sam figures.

“Yup. I've definitely been here before.”

They drink in silence for a while. Sam thinks how strange it is that they are surrounded by people, separated only by paper-thin walls. People they've never met, but would risk themselves for as soon as look at. People who don't know that these boys, who have given their lives over to saving them from unimaginable horrors, have unwittingly started the apocalypse. People who would never understand how brothers could even conceive of doing what is about to happen.

Sam waits for Dean to come to him this time. This has to be on his terms. And Dean does come. He puts down the bottle and shrugs out of his jacket. He cups Sam's face gently in his rough hands and brings their mouths together. It's slow and deep and searching, and Sam can feel the difference in it this time. It's like Dean is letting go. Really letting go.

They draw back.

“So many years, Dean,” Sam says sadly. “Why?”

Dean sighs.

“At first I just thought I was sick in the head. Dad would've killed me. I mean, we were young, but what was I thinking? It was unforgivable, Sam.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Sam whispers, stroking a long line from Dean's shoulder, down his bicep and forearm, fingers coming to rest on his wrist and wrapping around it.

“You were just a kid. No chance to make real friends. Girlfriends. It was selfish making you making you look on me...like that.”

Dean takes a deep breath and Sam waits for him to continue.

“When you left and settled into college life, I was real happy for you, Sammy.” Dean's eyes glaze and he looks up and to the side so Sam can tell he's remembering. “Used to come check up on you sometimes without you knowing.”

That's a revelation. Sam swallows, his heart speeding up a little.

“But part of me always resented it. I know that now. I wanted you with me. Didn't even hesitate when Dad went MIA. Just came along and dragged you kicking and screaming back into the life.”

“No,” Sam shakes his head. “I came willingly. I never wanted all that other stuff. Not really.”

Dean balks at that.

“I was selfish, Sammy. And for that I'm sorry. You deserved better. I know I've pushed you...that I've made bad calls. Everything I've done – bringing you back, putting that on you. It's like I just can't think straight when it comes to you. Everything I've been taught, everything I believe – it all goes out the window. It's not right and it's not healthy. And it can only end badly.”

Sam tightens his grip on his brother's wrist.

“Dean! I've wanted you for as long as I can remember. The only reason I left you and Dad in the first place was because I was half crazy with wanting you. Do you really think after all we've been through, knowing what we know is happening out there right now, that having this makes a scrap of difference?”

“It makes a lot of difference, Sammy.”

“Why?”

Dean takes a deep breath, puffs it out, and Sam sees tears glitter in his pale green eyes.

“When I was gone... in Hell...he...Alistair...he plucked things from my mind. Stuff I tried to hide, y'know, to use against me.”

Sam's brow furrows.

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“For maximum damage. He knew. Somehow he got to my memories and he knew, so he...used you. Your shape, your body, your voice.”

Sam feels himself blanche.

“He used me to...hurt you?”

Dean swallows audibly and nods.

“Jesus, Dean. I'm so sorry.”

“You couldn't know. But when I came back, I had to...I needed to...” he pauses. “I had to remember how you felt. How _you_ felt.”

“If I'd known, Dean, I never would've -”

“No, Sam. No. I wanted it. I wanted you. Always have. But it just makes us more vulnerable, y'know. It's like every evil piece of shit out there knows about us. Knows how messed up we are and how to use us against each other. Thought if I could keep some distance...some boundaries...”

Sam absently swipes at a tear on his own cheek before reaching out to touch his brother's face. He even looks like an angel. Nothing he's been through has marred his beauty.

“Doesn't have to be that way, Dean. You heard Ash. It's like we have...God's blessing.”

Dean smiles wanly.

“And where is He in all of this. Just another absent father, Sam. Angels, demons. I'm not sure there's a whole heap of difference any more.”

Sam cards his fingers tenderly through his brother's hair and lightly tugs, forcing Dean to meet his eyes.

“Look, I hear you. Believe me, I do. You've got every right to feel let down. And I have no right to ask, but I'm asking, Dean. Can you put your faith in me? I know I don't deserve it, but I need it. It's my last hope. You and me. I know how it sounds, but maybe if we take control, if we claim this thing, that might just be enough.”

Sam looks up at his brother, his expressive brow furrowed just so, eyes pleading and Dean's all over him then, fast and hard, pushing him back and crawling up to lie along his brother's long body.

“Damnit, Sammy. You drive me crazy. Fuckin' scares me how outta control I am when it comes to you. Know how hard I've had to fight this?”

Sam feels Dean's hot, liquor-tinged breath against his mouth.

“Stop fighting, Dean. If it's gonna end bloody and bad, then let's at least have this while we still can.”

Dean moans and Sam licks his way into his brother's sumptuous mouth.

“Don't ever wanna have to miss this, Sammy,” Dean pants between kisses. “How 'm I supposed to let you go after this?”

Sam swallows down a sob and suckles on his brother's soft bottom lip.He knows Dean's figured out he's planning something but he knows they won't talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Sam laces his fingers together at the small of Dean's back and pulls his brother down even harder onto him. He wants to get completely lost in the press and weight of the other man. Their kisses are heated but slow and languid, as if taking their time will slow the destruction happening all around them.

Dean starts to hump slowly against his little brother, and Sam knows that even though they are both still fully clothed, he won't be able to hold out for long now he finally has what he's been longing for since he first understood desire.

“Dean – I...I'm close already,” he mumbles.

Dean looks at him with an amused glint in his huge eyes.

“That so? Well, let's see just how close.”

Dean lets up enough to pull Sam's t-shirt up and over his head. Sam allows himself be manhandled and then Dean is kissing him again, swiping long, wet licks along his throat and chest. He can't hold back the groan that escapes him when Dean sucks on his nipple, goosebumps stippling his skin and his cock twitching wildly in the confines of his jeans.

“Oh fuck yeah, Dean.”

Dean smiles up at him.

“Yeah? Think we can get you there like this?”

Dean resumes his assault on Sam's chest, biting and licking, moaning encouragement, and Sam focuses on the slick warmth of his brother's tongue, the sharp edges of his teeth. He thinks on how Dean seems so self assured now he's made his choice, playing his body with the same skilled hands that can dismantle and rebuild a gun, the Impala's engine, stitch a wound. The mouth which can talk them out of (and into) trouble or floor the prettiest girl in any room at twenty paces.

He remembers the first searing touch of his brother's hand as it closed around him that night all those years ago, chrystallizing the jumble of thoughts and feelings he'd cautiously filed away as something better left unknown.

It feels like coming full circle – Dean willing, Dean driving. Sam's a teenager tasting the most forbidden of fruits once more and, as his brother's tongue lightly fucks his navel, Sam's hips buck up and he lets out a surprised moan as he shoots a load in his underwear.

Dean pulls up to watch the stain spread slowly on the front of his brother's jeans and says quietly,

“So hot for me, I didn't even have to touch it.”

There is such heat and wonder in his words Sam can't even bring himself to feel shame, just watches hungrily as Dean pulls his own shirt off and unfastens the front of Sam's ruined jeans. He strips them off, taking the sticky boxers down with them and sits back on his haunches to take in the sight of Sam spread naked and flushed, his dick softening and leaking the last vestiges of his climax onto his taut stomach.

Sam gasps as he feels Dean set to work, lapping up the cooling mess from his belly and his spent cock. He mouths gently, moaning all the all while, little murmurs of 'Mmm', and 'so good' peppering his progress.

When he's done, Dean scoots back up the bed, unbuttoning his own pants, shucking and discarding them on the dirty carpet. He cups Sam's face and kisses him deep and slow again so that Sam can taste the earthy tang of his own seed.

“Saved some for you,” he says licking in again and Sam can only moan his approval into his brother's mouth.

They kiss for what seems like hours. Time doesn't hold any sway over them now. There are more important things governing the Winchester boys. Their hands roam freely over each other's warm, firm bodies and they shunt moist breath and words back and forth between their open mouths. They whisper filthy, base things and adoration and sometimes they can't even find words enough so they whimper and grunt primal noises into one another's ear.

At one point Sam feels Dean tense and shudder against him, his mouth open on a silent holler, and hot come painting his hip. His own reawakening cock flexes at that and he kisses Dean through the last waves, his saliva tasting all the sweeter for his release.

“One apiece,” Dean says grinning, his voice a low rumble, and Sam laughs. It feels so good.

“Not a competition, jerk,” he says swatting Dean's head lightly and catching his swollen mouth in a rough kiss.

Seconds and minutes stretch, elastic, and still the boys kiss and touch, their breathing getting harsher, their carresses more urgent as their arousal builds again.

Sam pulls back leaving Dean bleary eyed, his lips red and raw looking, and says softly,

“In Plato's Symposium, Aristophanes tells a story about how humans used to have four arms, four leg and two faces.”

“Sam, seriously? You're going to give me a lecture on ancient Greek philosophy _right now_?”

He gestures down at their sweat sheened bodies.

Sam smiles against Dean's cheek.

“Shh. Let me finish. The story goes that the gods thought people were getting too powerful, too rebellious, so they cleaved them in half. And now we have two arms, two legs, one face. But only half a soul.”

The amusement softens out of Dean's eyes and he hooks Sam's gaze, sober now.

“Why are you telling me this, Sammy?”

“One soul. Two people. Forever seeking their twin. Their other half. Literally. So even if something was to happen, if one was to be...destroyed, the other person would still carry that part of them. Always. No matter what.”

“Sam-”

“I just want you to remember that Dean. Whatever happens, remember that story. Promise me.”

Dean's breath hitches at Sam's earnest expression, the expectancy in his eyes that cuts straight to Dean's core just like when he was a child, and in that moment he understands how this will end.

“I promise,” he manages, though it sticks his throat on the way out.

“Thank you. Thank you, Dean,” Sam breathes, crushing his brother back down to him, smoothing his hair with those long, tapered fingers.

They kiss, sloppy and deep like feeding, and finally Sam says,

“I want you.”

“You got me, kiddo,” Dean says nipping at his jaw.

“No, I want you...inside.”

Sam waits for Dean's startled eyes to meet his and smiles as assuredly as he can muster. Dean takes a deep, shaky breath and says,

“Sure?”

Sam nods, resolute, and lets his brother turn him on his stomach. He gets a deep-seated thrill working through his whole body when he feels the naked press of Dean's skin on his back. He's never been pinned laying on his belly like this and it feels amazing. Dean slides against him for a bit as if testing their fit, hard against the back of Sam's thighs, and then slowly slides down the length of Sam's body, leaving the cool little spectres of open mouthed kisses along his spine.

Sam's shoulders tense when he feels Dean's hands spreading him, the humid breath right there against his opening, and he raises his head to look over his shoulder.

“Dean, you don't have to – holy shit!”

His brother's tongue laves a warm trail across his hole and he jumps a clear three inches off the bed.

“Dean! Fuck!”

He hears Dean chuckle and that wily tongue is back, teasing him, making him squirm and gasp and push back for more even as he protests.

“Dean, I don't know. I've never...”

“Hush, little brother. If we're doing this, we're going to do it all. Does it feel good?”

He punctuates with another wet swipe and Sam bites his lip hard.

“Oh God yeah! Tickles a bit but...”

Dean licks in again holding his tongue just inside the tight ring of muscle and wiggling it around a bit.

“Fuck!” Sam grits. “Oh yeah, that feels good. So good.”

He moans and muffles it in the pillow under his face. He's trembling with need now. Dean pushes in further, and Sam loses himself in the completely alien sensation of being stroked from inside. It's so good it brings tears to his eyes and he curses the fact he never knew he could take his pleasure from this part of himself until now.

“Dean!” He says turning his face to the side to be heard. “Dean! You have to stop or this will be over before it starts.”

Dean withdraws that clever tongue which has Sam cinching and clasping around the sudden emptiness. He sighs with relief as one of Dean's fingers sinks slowly and smoothly into him.

“So tight, Sammy,” Dean rasps in a strained voice. “So tight and perfect.”

“Just for you, Dean,” Sam promises. “Only for you. Fuck me open, Dean.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters and bends to spit, working a second finger in next to the first.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the sting to subside and tries to exhale slow and long. It's easier when he relaxes and adjusts to the intrusion, and soon Dean is working him, finger fucking with a steady rhythm. Sam moves his hips slightly and there! Dean's fingers push that trigger deep inside him which has him crying out and almost pushes him over the edge.

“That's it, baby boy. Gonna feel so amazing when I finally drive it home. Can't wait to feel you so hot and tight around my dick. Just thinkin' about it...”

Sam laughs weakly as Dean has to grab the base of his rigid cock to stop from losing it all over the back of Sam's legs.

“Quit thinking and start doing,” Sam orders, his voice sounding enough like their father's to make them both intake a fast, shallow breath.

“You sure Sam?” Dean asks quietly. “I haven't really-”

“Please, Dean. I need it now. I know it's gonna hurt some. It's fine. I want it. Want you.”

Dean nudges Sam's legs open with his knees and settles himself over his brother's back. He works up as much spittle as he can and uses it on himself before touching the head of his weeping cock to Sam's hole.

“Ready?” he asks, sounding as shaky as Sam feels. “Gonna fuck you now, Sam.”

“Do it.”

Sam gasps as the head breaches him and Dean is apologising, mouth running nineteen to the dozen while he tries to keep stock still.

“It's OK, Sam says, shushing him. “It's OK, don't stop.”

Dean pushes in with infinitesimal motions until he is completely sheathed in his brother's rippling heat. He lies along his brother's back, waiting, sliding his hands over Sam's, spread out ahead of him on the cheap nylon bedspread, and entwining their fingers.

“Alright, kiddo?”

“Yeah. Just gimme a second.”

Sam feels so full and utterly possessed that he thinks he might cry. But he knows Dean won't know what to do with that so instead he says,

“You can move now, you big dicked jerk,” to which Dean replies,

“Oh yeah? Well I'm sure you can take it real good like the little bitch you are.”

He tries to laugh but it dies in his throat when Sam feels the slow drag of his brother's cock pulling out, drawing a ragged groan from his lips. The first thrust is somewhere between pleasure and pain but Sam welcomes it, grinding back to meet it.

The second is easier, and after a few more, Dean finds his stride, angling just so and making Sam's blood thunder in his ears. He can't remember ever feeling like this, on the crest of coming undone second after second, minute after minute, the pressure inside him ratcheting up with each thrust making him keen and thrash his head from side to side while his big brother pinions his hands to the rough bedclothes.

“Wait! Wait!” Sam begs. “I need to see you.”

Dean moans but stops pumping his hips and gently pulls out. Sam flips over and pulls his brother back into a deep, fevered kiss. He sucks Dean's tongue into his mouth and lets his knees fall wider apart as Dean reaches down between them and guides his aching dick back inside Sam. It's easier now and he slides all the way in with a grateful sigh.

“So beautiful, Sammy. You don't know how many nights I laid awake when you left for Stanford imagining this. Bringing myself off to the thought of being belly deep in my little brother.”

“Fuck, Dean!” Sam gasps and Dean rolls his hips. Sam sucks his own index good and wet, then reaches around Dean and lightly probes at his brother's opening. Dean growls and flashes Sam a looks of pure lust.

“Yeah. Do it Sam. Put it in.”

Sam carefully pushes his finger inside Dean to the knuckle and feels him spasm, dragging him further in.

“Like that, Dean?” he pants.

“Yeah. I like it, Sam,” he says. “I like it a lot. Can't wait to feel your dick there. It's pretty big but I reckon you know how to use it, right, Sammy?”

“Christ.”

They move together, Sam savouring every minute detail of his brother's expressions, every sound and smell. Each dirty word. The taste of salt on his skin. The way his finger is gripped so tightly in Dean's ass. He remembers what Dean said about letting go. He knows in every cell of his body this will be the thing that gives him strength when he's locked inside himself with the devil. When Lucifer is fighting for control, Sam will be back here, on this worn out bed in a crappy motel, reliving his own slice of Heaven and that will be enough.

But he wonders if, when the time comes, this will be his one shred of comfort in the dark, or if having it only to lose it will let despair consume him all the faster.

Dean plows forward, his tight stomach muscles brushing Sam's swollen shaft and Sam's done for. He shouts so loudly when he comes this time that Dean has to clamp a palm over his mouth. Then Dean is following him over the edge, spurt after spurt of sludgy warmth filling him up, Deans eyes rolling back in his head as he bites back a scream.

Dean collapses forward, his lips nuzzling sleepily at Sam's neck. Sam carefully retracts his finger and shifts slightly, getting comfortable and encircling his brother with his strong, sinewy arms. He lets the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest set the pace of his breaths. Lets their hearts sync. Four arms, four legs, two faces. One soul.

Sam says,

“It'll be OK, Dean. I mean, nothing ever _really_ ends. Right?”

But Dean doesn't respond, and the soft snore which escapes him tells Sam he's out for the count.

Sam says,

“I love you more than life. The best part of me is you. I'll save the world to keep your heart.”

And he means it.

  
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